


Loose Ends Take Flight

by Lunarwolfik



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 19:50:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarwolfik/pseuds/Lunarwolfik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas had been out of angel mojo for, god, months now.  His lack of shaving was starting to show.  His disregard for peril too, already starting to collect a set of scars to rival the Winchesters.  </p><p>Broken ribs in Seattle, hellhound bite in Dixie.  A fractured femur in San Antoine, three delicate scratches across his back from the deavas in Atlantic City.  He’s had more than a few concussions and been choked at least five times.  Dean tries to be more protective, to tell him to slow his roll, that he’s not freaking invincible anymore, but Cas never really <i>gets</i> it.  He’s got this…stubbornness about him now, more than before, like he has to prove himself useful or they’ll just leave at the next stop on the road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loose Ends Take Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Greg Laswell - Off I Go.

Dean shoves Cas into the Impala one cold night in January, their breath fogging in the air and Cas’ lips tinged blue. They’d been on stake out, watching empty fields and barren trees, waiting for any signs of a selkie but finding nothing. Not even a glimmer.

Sam was back in town, making sure the kid that summoned them didn’t get eaten and honestly, it was all a bit too Steven King for Dean’s taste. 

The moon is full, bright light searing through the tattered trees, making paper angel wings on the hood of the Impala. The shifting shadows make Dean smile and Cas look, well, like he always did. If Dean thinks he hears a wistful sigh, he’s probably imagining it. Cas had been out of angel mojo for, god, months now. His lack of shaving was starting to show. His disregard for peril too, already starting to collect a set of scars to rival the Winchesters. 

Broken ribs in Seattle, hellhound bite in Dixie. A fractured femur in San Antoine, three delicate scratches across his back from the deavas in Atlantic City. He’s had more than a few concussions and been choked at least five times. Dean tries to be more protective, to tell him to slow his roll, that he’s not freaking invincible anymore, but Cas never really _gets_ it. He’s got this…stubbornness about him now, more than before, like he has to prove himself useful or they’ll just leave him at the next stop on the road. 

It’s damn nerve wracking and distracting, having to not only look out for Sammy but a freakin’ suicidal fallen angel on top of it. 

Which is why, when Cas’ teeth start chattering and his eyes start drooping, Dean realizes the guy needs a break, that he doesn’t know when his body’s had enough and Dean was damn well not going to have another round of Mr. Comatose on his hands. 

He shoves Castiel into the backseat of the Impala, the ex-angel’s protestations intermittent between chatters and shivers. 

“Yea, sure, you’re not cold, not one bit. Listen Cas, just shut up and get in the damn car,” Dean snipes back, feeling his patience wearing thin. 

He scrubs a hand over his face as he slams the back door shut, the creaking cadence a reassuring sound in the crisp night air. He really was like a baby in a trenchcoat. Sure, it wasn’t his fault he didn’t know all about the human condition, but that didn’t make it any less annoying having to look after him, having fear gnaw at Dean’s insides every time he saw blood bloom on Cas’ trenchcoat. 

If any selkie was set on invading this town, they’d just have to run ‘em down instead. It was a solid B-plan that at least kept their three-man team in tact, if a little ragged. Sam had said if the monster didn’t show by the time the moon peaked, then it was pretty unlikely the bastards would show at all. 

Dean walks around the Impala, one hand floating light above her body, the cool metal familiar under his touch. It grounds him, brings things into focus, and he can’t help but smile. When he gets in the front, Cas looks to be marginally warming, not shivering as much and his brow is slightly less furrowed. 

It’s a start. 

“Look, I’m gonna start the car up, get some heat going for a bit. Figure those baddies aren’t gonna show their sorry asses tonight,” Dean says, looking to Cas who’s sprawled less than delicately, taking up more room than he should and yet still looking small. 

“If you think it wise,” Cas responds. Dean’s not sure, but he thinks there’s a trace of condescension there, a twist of loyalty. It’s like he doesn’t want to admit that his body’s telling him the warmth sounds amazing, like if he admits it then he’s admitting defeat, admitting that he’s finally human. 

Dean shrugs it off, not wanting to touch that chick flick moment with a ten-foot pole. Cas wants to think of himself as Superman, let him, so long as it was while Sam and him were there to have his back. Dean pumps the gas, turns the key, and feels the car rumble to life, happy to do his bidding, ready to hit the road the minute he asks. She purrs contentedly as he lets her idle, fiddling with the heat and watching the field through the foggy glass. It’s still quiet, the grass swaying in the breeze, carrying on for miles. It’s like a sea of deep greens, offset by moonlight, rolling with the ocean tide, the waters cresting in the distant hillock. The trees offset it, standing tall, like proud sentinels to the flowing fields below, quietly guarding them, providing unasked for shelter and demanding nothing in return. Their shapes stretch like dark smudges across the horizon, disappearing into the distance. 

“Do you see anything?” Cas asks after a few minutes of quiet, a few minutes of blessed warmth. 

“Less you count Fern Gully out there, nope.” Dean replies, looking over to see if Castiel was faring better. Cas’ vacant stare back tells him that reference was another lost cause. 

“I don’t know why you continue using “pop culture” on me Dean,” he says, at least getting the air quotes right this time. Dean smiles, feeling proud. 

“I dunno Cas, you catch on pretty quick sometimes.” 

Cas sighs, straightening a little in the back, adjusting his coat so it’s less haphazard. He really does need to shave at some point. Which is not a lesson Dean’s looking forward to teaching, imagining lots of exasperated facial expressions and a lot of blood. Maybe he’ll just let Cas figure it out for himself. Or keep the encroaching lumberjack look. 

He sees Cas with a gun, bright pot-laced smile and broken words mixed with broken promises, sees Lucifer wearing Sammy’s skin, hears the crunch of a snapped neck and the gurgling of dead men. 

No, no maybe not. 

Cas sits quietly, vigilant, hands in his lap now almost like an afterthought. His tie is still crooked. 

Dean sighs to himself, reaches over and adjusts the offending garment, sensibility getting the better of him. Cas stops looking out the side window to give Dean a glare. Or something. Dean’s never really sure these days. 

“Thank you,” Cas says gruffly, looking down at his hands. 

“Don’t mention it, you getting warmer?” he asks, putting the last touches on the now fixed tie. Before he can pull back, Cas reaches up lightning quick, grasping his wrist. His hands are still pretty chilly, cold fingertips making Dean suck in a breath between his teeth. 

“I don’t-I don’t know Dean, is this the right temperature?” Cas asks, completely innocent and Dean can’t help it, he chuckles. 

“No, not really. Jeez, you need to eat more red meat. Or invest in some gloves.” 

“I don’t see how meat consumption would warm my fingers at this time,” Cas states with a tilt of his head, eyebrows tapering together just so, the look always reminding Dean of a wounded bird. He gives Cas’ shoulder a hearty pat with his other hand, half commiserating, half suck-it-up. 

“Just rub your hands together and blow on ‘em, it’ll help until the car heats up,” Dean says and before he can move his hand from the other’s grip, Cas listens. 

He ends up half rubbing Dean’s hand and half just holding it before taking a big breath and blowing like he’s the damned big bad wolf. 

“Like that?” Cas asks and the sheer naivety of it all is enough to make Dean want nothing more than to keep Cas safe, keep him from losing that innocence Dean hasn’t had since he was six years old and John gave him the most precious cargo of all. Dean shakes his head, pulls his hand back a little and just laughs for a minute. Deep belly laughs that make his face hurt, make his lips crack. It feels good, god, it feels great; he hasn’t had the luxury of laughter for far too long. 

“Yea, yea, Cas, like that, though it helps if it’s your own fingers and not mine,” Dean finally says once he’s at least somewhat composed; smile still curving the edges of his lips. 

“Your hand was cold too,” Cas replies simply, now following the instructions proper, a small flicker of relief on his face as the trick works. Dean’s not really all that surprised, considering. 

They sit in silence a moment, Dean gazing out the window, counting the flicker of starlight and the feel of his heartbeat. The car warms slowly, her comforting purr making him feel solid again, whole. 

Dean doesn’t know how long they’ve been there, but Cas is resting his head against the seat, a few inches away from Dean’s shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, most days he’s pretty quiet, but this time it feels more purposeful. Thick and heavy, like he’s thinking to himself and Dean doesn’t need to see the tilt to his posture to know he has that lost bird look on his face. His eyes flick up to the rearview and yep, bird face. 

Cas catches his gaze in the mirror and that’s all it takes. 

He grabs Dean’s shirt collar and _tugs_. Pulls him close, right into personal space and then some, crashing their lips together like he’s a drowning man, like this is all he’s been thinking about since the moment they met. Cas’ lips are hungry, wanting, passion and fire and a million other things, sheer _need_ laced throughout it all. He darts his tongue feather-quick across Dean’s bottom lip before pulling back, Dean a little breathless and Cas’ cheeks a little flushed. 

“Dean, I am _tired_. Tired of pretending and tired of whatever it is that you call flirting. I-I want,” he says, plaintive and needy and Dean _gets_ it. Finally fucking gets it and holy shit, does he feel like a complete tool now. 

“Shh, dude, I get it. I got ya,” he cuts Cas off and then tips forward that scant inch, kisses Cas this time, slower and more sure. 

The car hums, the stars flicker off and on, and Dean stops thinking, if only for a little while. 

***

Later, when Cas gets bruised and bloody, Dean’s curses are louder. Later, when Cas risks his neck, getting slammed into walls with a shiny concussion marring his hairline, Dean stabs the demon with all his might. Later, when Cas is humming to himself, one hand resting against Dean’s bare chest, he makes him promise to be more careful. Later, Cas nods but doesn’t acquiesce. 

Later, Sam gives them knowing looks and raised eyebrows. Later, Dean tells him to shut his cakehole. Later, Cas almost dies and Dean makes him swear, swear on his post-angel little ass, to stop being a goddamn hero. 

Cas swears with crossed fingers that time. 

Dean stops asking.


End file.
